


A Bastard At Heart

by Furious_Winter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, mostly angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 14:03:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Furious_Winter/pseuds/Furious_Winter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for "Plead" AryaxGendry February '14 prompt. </p><p>Post-canon/slightly AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bastard At Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic a few months ago and, thanks to the prompt, I was able to finish it. I've gotten criticism before for not staying entirely true to the books. I'll just say… if you've had problems with my work before, don't read this. For the rest of you, I really, really hope you enjoy this. It sure as hell took long enough. :)

They called her the Queen in the North, Winter’s Rose. He’d heard tales of her beauty and grace, but seeing her now, up close, he understood why it was said that words couldn’t do her justice. Had he not known it, Gendry would’ve never guessed that this woman was Arya Stark’s sister. She’d been welcomed to King’s Landing with the usual fanfare and now she sat opposite him to dine in his royal chamber. 

Her voice was like silk. “King’s Landing is even more beautiful than I remember, Your Grace. You’ve done a marvellous job restoring it beyond its former glory.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Gendry smiled warmly. “And there is no need for formalities. Gendry is enough.”

She gave him a humored half-grin and tilted her head in an understanding nod. “Very well, Gendry. Call me Sansa.”

“As you wish.” Nervously, he motioned to her plate. “Please, eat. I had them slaughter the fattest boar in the Crownlands. You must be hungry after your journey.”

“No, thank you. I’m actually quite tired.” Sansa cocked her head in a manner that reminded him of Arya. “I’d rather we discuss what I came here for if you don’t mind.”

“Very well.” Gendry folded his napkin and placed it to the side, clearing his throat and adopting a more serious tone. “I’m given to understand that this was your brother’s idea.”

She nodded softly. “Yes, it was. He believes it’s in the best interests of the people to unite the North and South once again.”

Gendry raised an eyebrow. “And do you agree with that? Do you Northerners not treasure your freedom?”

“We treasure our lives.” Her soft features seemed to disappear as she spoke. “Should the Others return, we do not have the manpower to repel them again.” She took a breath. “And Viserion has grown weak. The cold does not treat him well.”

He reclined in his chair and stroked the stubble on his chin. “Dorne could see this as a precedent to war. Rhaegal will be of little use to you if they invade. It’s rumored that Drogon grows larger still and I don’t imagine a quarrel between the two of them would last for very long.”

“You won’t need to worry about that for much longer. If Dorne wanted to invade, they would have done so already.” She spoke matter-of-factly. “They have no interest in the rest of Westeros.” Sansa leaned forward. “With our marriage, we will create the most powerful force in the world. If Dorne invades, they will be crushed. And when the Others return, it will be for the last time. My brother has dreamt it.”

Gendry furrowed his brow, “I am to trust your brother’s dreams?”

Sansa sat back with a smile. “He is the reason Daenerys Targaryen no longer has her dragons. He rode Viserion in the last battle against the Others.” With a satisfied look, she sipped at her wine. “And,” she blinked prettily at him, “he is the one that convinced your uncle to legitimize you, all of which happened because he dreamt it first. It seems to me you have little reason _not_ to trust his dreams.”

***

Ser Loras quietly entered Gendry’s chamber and informed him, “Queen Sansa has arrived with her family, Your Grace.”

Having been looking out over the city from his balcony, Gendry quietly stepped back and sighed. “Three months feels like three days since she left.” He turned to Loras and asked sarcastically, “Do you think it would anger her if I told her I’ve changed my mind?”

Loras laughed at that. “She’d probably have her sister kill you in your sleep.”

Gendry blinked. “Her sister?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Lady Arya.” Loras nodded.

He wasn’t sure he was hearing correctly. “Lady Arya is alive?” Gendry asked. Loras nodded again. “Why was I not informed of this?”

Loras appeared slightly confused by Gendry’s inquisition. “Like most everyone else, I assumed it was only rumors much like when she supposedly married the Bolton bastard. I beg your pardons, Your Grace.”

Gendry shook his head apologetically. “No, no. That’s fine, Ser Loras. What do you know of her?”

“Apparently, she trained to be a Faceless Man but left the order a few years ago.”

Gendry stepped forward. “And they’ve all come?”

“Yes, Your Grace, along with Lord Brandon and a hundred others,” he gestured in a bored manner as he spoke, “her Queensguard, a dozen nobles, servants and the like.”

Gendry stroked at his chin, his face nearly hurting from being scrunched up in thought. “Let me know at once when they are ready for me to formally receive them.” Loras bowed and left. 

***

The feast celebrating Queen Sansa’s arrival had begun just before sunset and had quickly turned into nothing short of a raucous occasion. Even now, several hours later, the guests were still eating, drinking, talking, laughing, shouting, singing, fighting, and carrying on as if the sun would never rise again. It made him happy to see them this way. Queen Sansa had not been wrong: uniting the North and South once again would bring happiness to the people. However, his mind had seldom given that any thought as he seemed to find himself constantly giving wayward glances to the young lady seated two seats down from him. 

Still, they hadn’t spoken. In addition, he was quite sure she hadn’t even _looked_ at him, but he couldn’t keep himself from stealing glances at the girl he’d known so very long ago. He’d heard whispers about her.

“She wanted to be part of her sister’s Queensguard, but Queen Sansa denied her that.”

“Lady Arya looks like her aunt, does she not? I hear she’s just as wild.”

“I’m told she regularly bests her brother Rickon when they spar.”

“She’s nothing like the girl she used to be. She’s damaged, that one.”

Gendry looked to the floor and spied Sansa dancing with some Northern lord he didn’t recognized. Stealing another glance down the table toward Arya, he tried to muster the courage to go and speak to her but either from the wine or from his nerves he couldn’t find the words to say to her. When he’d seen her in a dress for the first time so long ago, he’d thought she was beautiful, young and innocent as they both were. Now, however, he found it difficult to believe that her beauty had increased exponentially. With a frustrated sigh he got up and exited out one of the side doors to a balcony, taking his cup and a wineskin with him, and leaned against the stone railing. 

“Is everything alright, Your Grace?” Queen Sansa’s voice drifted to him like a feather in the wind. 

He turned round to look at her. “Call me Gendry.” he reminded her. “And yes, I just wanted a bit of fresh air.” He smiled. “I’ve never been fond of festivities.”

She furrowed her brow in a charming manner and walked up beside him, leaning over the railing and gazing into the night. “I’d heard that about you, but I didn’t believe it. I suppose you have less of your father in you than I feared.”

Gendry scowled at the mention of Robert. “I could live in the center of the sun and his shadow would still find me.” She laughed at that and he offered her his cup. “Would you like a drink?”

She politely refused, “No, thank you. I’ve had quite enough for the evening, I think.” She turned her body to face him and looked at him quizzically. “Do you often drink this much, or only on festive occasions?”

It was his turn to laugh. “Only when I deem it necessary, and yes, festive occasions make it a necessity.” He became more serious, “But I’m no drunkard like my father. Nor am I a glutton or a whore.”

Sansa grinned. “Arya assured me as much.”

He raised his eyebrow, “Did she?” Sansa nodded. “She remembers me?”

She broke out into a wide smile. “Oh, yes. After Bran suggested that we marry she wouldn’t shut up about you.” Sansa made to mock Arya’s voice, _“He’s very kind and honorable like Father, but stubborn as a bull. Don’t worry, just call him ‘stupid’ and he’ll let you have your way.”_

His breath caught in his throat as he imagined her saying that. He blurted, “Is she happy?”

Sansa seemed caught off guard by the question. “Why wouldn’t she be?”

Gendry shook his head, inwardly chastising himself for the question. He tried to laugh it off, “I don’t know, I just assumed-”

“Assumed what, exactly?” He and Sansa both looked to the door in unison as Arya walked slowly towards them, a wise smile on her lips and a goblet in her hand. “That training to be an assassin means giving up one’s sanity? That living with bandits in the Riverlands for a year turns one into a wildling?” She smirked. “Or that I’m a merciless killer, sneaking into children’s home in the dead of night to sacrifice them to the dreaded Red God?”

Nervously, Gendry shook his head again. “No, I didn’t mean-”

Arya grinned at him, “Stupid.”

“Arya!” Sansa laughed and held her chest. “Be more respectful of your king!”

“He’s not my king,” she added, “yet.”

“The last thing I need is my sister insulting my husband at every turn. Though I’ll miss you, I thank the Seven you won’t be staying here in King’s Landing.” She placed a light hand on Gendry’s arm. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go send a raven.” With that, she hurried for the door. 

Gendry gave Arya a confused look. “Send a raven? At this hour?”

Arya rolled her eyes. “She means she’s got to take a piss.” She emptied the contents of her goblet in a quick, noisy gulp. “My dear sister is too proud to say it in the company of men, so she runs off to send a raven,” Arya chuckled, “like that fools anyone.” She gestured to the wineskin. “Do you mind?” Clumsily, Gendry pulled off the cap and filled her goblet, spilling a bit at the end. “Thank you, _Your Grace.”_ She smirked and licked the wine from her hand. “I don’t recommend that you consider moonlighting as a servant.”

He felt almost at a loss for words for how at ease she was, how at ease she made him feel. “You seem much different from the girl I once knew. Are you always this friendly?”

“No,” she pointed at him, “but I’ll confess I am a little drunk. Don’t hold it against me.”

He grinned, “I wouldn’t think less of you for getting drunk at a feast.”

Arya shot him a serious look. “No, I meant for being friendly.” He blinked, but she broke into a wide smile and he sheepishly returned it. 

“Your sister says you’re not staying.” He clucked his tongue. “That’s a shame. We could use someone like you in the Keep to lighten our spirits.”

Arya grimaced and exaggerated her words, _“Unfortunately,_ I’m being shipped off to Dorne to be married.” She glanced at him and he saw the vulnerability in her eyes, but her voice did not betray it. “Lord Edric Dayne, I believe you remember him?” Not giving Gendry a chance to answer, she continued, “He was Lord Beric Dondarrion’s squire. I recall you getting jealous each time I’d speak with him.”

Mid-drink, Gendry sputtered. _“J-jealous?”_

“Oh, yes.” She adopted a smug smile. “I remember you droning on,” she mocked him in a low voice, _“bloody highborns.”_

He felt his cheeks burning and was grateful for the darkness. “I don’t seem to remember you being terribly fond of highborns, either.”

“And now you _are_ one.” She cocked her head. “Ironic, no? And a _king_ no less.”

He took a drink and replied, “I’m still a bastard at heart.”

Arya gave him a sad smile. “Me too.”

Gendry swirled the contents of his cup, unable to keep his mind from what she’d just told him. “So, Lady Arya _Dayne._ Does that excite you?”

She scoffed, “How could it? No one ever marries because they _want_ to.”

He countered, “Your sister wants to.”

Arya nodded, “Yes, but not to you. Her heart belongs to another.”

Gendry furrowed his brow, “And who is that?”

She bit her lip and gave him a curious look. “I’m afraid I’ve said too much.” She quickly added, “But don’t worry, she still intends to wed you. And she’ll be faithful,” Arya took a drink, “because she’s a Stark. Even though she doesn’t want to marry you, she’ll do her duty.”

“And is that why you’ll marry Edric Dayne?” He studied her. “Because it’s your duty?”

Arya said it simply, “Of course. He may not be my ideal husband, but it could be worse.” She laughed, “I could be marrying a Frey.”

Gendry leaned forward, looking into her eyes. “And who is your ideal husband?”

She held his gaze for a moment and then quickly looked away. “It doesn’t matter.”

He pressed her, “Of course it matters. Tell me.”

Sarcastically, she asked, “Is that a command from my king?”

“I’m not your king,” he mocked her, “yet.”

She sighed and adopted an air of superiority. “Well, then, I suppose you’ll just have to wonder. Yours won’t be the first heart I’ve broken.”

The words came out before he could stop them. “Are you sure about that?”

Slowly, she brought her head up to look at him. He could’ve sworn she was blushing. “What are you implying, _Your Grace?”_ He braced himself for the worst, but her next question surprised him. “That I’m not pretty enough to be a heartbreaker?”

He grinned. “No, of course not.”

She straightened up and put a hand on her hip. “Because I’ll have you know that suitors were breaking down the gates of Winterfell to ask for my hand.” She added, “Despite the rumors.”

Chuckling, he raised his cup to her. “I’m sure they were.”

Arya continued, “You may be the king, but that doesn’t give you the right to insult the queen’s sister.”

Gendry squinted and grinned, “I’m under the impression that it does.”

She waved a hand at him and leaned back against the railing. “Well, you’re wrong. You may not insult me.” 

“As m’lady commands.” Just like years before, he felt the familiar jab in his ribs. He laughed, “Oh, and now you’ve _struck_ the king! That’s punishable by death, even for the queen’s sister,” he rubbed at his side, “or am I mistaken?”

“You’re mistaken.” she immediately answered, laughing along with him. 

When their laughter subsided, he asked, “And there’s no chance you’ll tell me who your ideal husband is? I’m not mistaken about that as well?”

Arya bit her lip and turned around, leaning forward over the railing. “You’re not going to let that go, are you?”

“I’m the king.” Gendry straightened up. “If anyone has a chance of matching you with whomever you wish, it’s me.” She didn’t respond and he studied her. “Tell me about him.”

She gave him a sly smile. “Why do you find this topic so interesting?”

Gendry shrugged. “He must be an interesting man to catch the eye of Lady Arya Stark.”

His heart sank at the thought of her with anyone else, but Arya giggled like a child and set it aflutter. “No. He’s quite dull, actually.”

“Ah.” Gendry nodded and sipped at his cup. “A lord, then.”

“No,” she said lightly, “he’s not a lord.”

Perhaps this fellow was beneath her. “A chap from a lesser house?” She avoided his gaze and drank. “Someone from Winterfell?”

Arya shook her head. “Wrong and wrong.”

With a sigh, Gendry leaned against the railing and playfully complained, “Well, you’ve got to give me something more to go on. Is he lowborn?”

Her smile dissipated and she became sullen. “Yes, you could say that.”

He frowned. “A bastard, then?”

Arya didn’t immediately respond, first looking down and then up at him, expressionless. “A bastard at heart.”

His heart pounded in his chest. _She can’t mean me,_ he thought, _she can’t._ Still frowning, he took another drink. _Even if she does mean me, it doesn’t matter now._ “I suppose that is something of a problem.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “I suppose so.” She held his gaze for a moment and then pushed away from the railing. “Well, it’s been very nice talking with you, Gendry, but I believe I’m going to turn in for the evening.” She gave a shallow curtsy and began walking towards the door.

He didn’t want their conversation to be over and called after her. “You still haven’t told me who your ideal husband is.”

She stopped and looked over her shoulder at him. “I did.” She blinked and left without another word. 

***

The rest of the feast felt like a dream, or perhaps a nightmare. He managed to remain friendly and cordial, but he couldn’t keep his mind off of her. For years she might as well have been dead and now suddenly she wasn’t. What was worse, the sight of her had stirred up feelings within him that he’d never quite understood until now. Before long, the energy in the room began to settle as guests retired for the evening. Sansa had left not long ago and he now felt it appropriate to excuse himself as well. Wineskin in hand, he left the feast and began making his way to his chamber. When he arrived at his door, he stopped. _I should go to her,_ he thought. _If nothing else, I should tell her. I should let her know…_

Expressing the sentiment was pointless, he reasoned. _I’m marrying her sister and she’s off to wed that little blonde haired sap. There’s very little for us to say._ Additionally, she might think him a fool for professing his love so soon after seeing her for the first time in years. With a sigh, he pushed open his door and entered, immediately reaching to his shoulder to unfasten his cape. 

“You look sullen.” Slightly startled, Gendry turned to look towards the corner of the room where Arya sat a table with a wineskin of her own and a cup in her hand. Her face was expressionless.

He collected himself and, hanging his cape on the wall, replied, “As do you.” A hint of a smile appeared at the corners of her mouth. His heart raced in his chest and he felt his head swimming lightly. His face felt hot and his breathing was shallow. Forcing a deep breath, he asked, “Why are you here?”

Arya glanced to the floor and bit her lip before taking a drink from her cup. She then sat the it beside her, still staring at the floor, and quickly said, “I wanted to apologize.”

Gendry furrowed his brow. “What for?” 

She wrung her hands briefly before clasping them in her lap and looking up at him. “After I returned to Winterfell and learned you’d been crowned, I wanted to send a raven.” She looked at him for a moment, blinking. “I couldn’t find the words.”

His heart ached at the thought. Selfishly, he couldn’t deny that it hurt him to know she was alive and that she could’ve let him know but had chosen not to. Slowly, he crossed to the chair opposite her and sat down. He shook his head. “No apology is necessary. I can’t imagine what I might’ve done if our roles were reversed.”

Arya smiled weakly at that. “I was afraid, too. Afraid that you weren’t how I remembered you and afraid that you might not remember me much at all.”

Gendry’s eyes widened. “Arya, that’s-”

She grinned uncomfortably and finished his sentence for him, “Stupid, I know that now.” Refilling her cup, she continued, “It could’ve been the two of us getting married.” She eyed him with a wariness he’d never before seen from her. “It was Bran’s suggestion, but I asserted that Sansa was the better match.” 

Gendry’s heart dropped. He studied every feature of her face with desire, her sad, steely gray eyes and her long, braided brown hair. “A better match for the kingdoms, perhaps.” Arya met his gaze and held it, a hint of color appearing on her cheeks. He reached out out his hand and gently brushed her hair behind her ear. His fingers grazed her skin and she closed her eyes with a sudden intake of breath. Her reaction intoxicated him and he paced his hand on the side of her face, rubbing the top of her cheek with his thumb. He spoke quietly, “I used to dream what you might look like.” She closed her eyes more tightly now and brought her hand up to still his. 

“Gendry...” she whispered. He made to lean across the table but her eyes fluttered open and she immediately stood, his hand slipping away from her. She began to walk for the door but he reached out and caught her arm, stopping her. She gave him a frightened glare as he stood up, turning her to him and drawing her near. One hand on her back, holding her close, the other found its way again to her head and he cupped her chin, bringing her face up to his. He could feel her trembling against him. “Gendry, please.” Her eyes darted back and forth between his and she placed a hand on his chest. He leaned down and brushed his cheek against hers, inhaling her scent and growing restless from the feel of her so close to him. She whispered into his ear, _“Please,_ Gendry.” She pulled her head back to look him in the eyes again and pleaded, “Stop.”

Whatever had come over him, he was powerless to stop it now. Gendry rubbed his hand along her back and ran his fingers lightly across the nape of her neck. “If you really wanted me to stop,” he stared into her as he lowered his face to hers, “you’d stop me.” She went limp in his arms as he brought his lips to hers. 

***

Gendry heard the footsteps long before Loras entered his study. “Your Grace, you have a visitor.” 

He looked up to Loras, his once purely golden brown hair now peppered with bits of white and gray, and noticed that the faithful knight looked somewhat pale. “Who is it?” he asked curiously.

He hesitated a moment before speaking. “Lord Jon Dayne, first born son of Lord Ned Dayne and Lady Arya, Your Grace.”

Gendry exhaled shakily at the mention of her before returning his eyes to the books laid out before him. “And what business does he have here?”

“He has a letter for you, Your Grace, from Lady Arya.”

He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “Have him give it to you. I’ll read it later.”

Loras cleared his throat. “He says that Lady Arya gave explicit instructions to deliver the letter to you in person.” Gendry didn’t move and the room was silent until Loras took a few steps forward, speaking. “If I may, Your Grace, I believe it’s best that you see him.”

Gendry raised his head to look at him and saw the sincerity in Loras’ eyes. He nodded, “Very well. Send him in.” Loras exited and Gendry listened as his footsteps grew fainter until another pair could be heard. He looked down again at his books as the young lord entered. 

“Your Grace,” his voice was deep and confident, “it’s a pleasure-”

Gendry cut him off, “Skip the formalities. You have the letter?” 

If the young man was fazed, his voice didn’t betray it. “Yes, Your Grace.” He took a few steps forward. “My mother gave it to me an hour before she died.” Gendry closed his eyes again and warred with the mental image that invaded his mind. “She told me to come here myself and ensure that you received it.” Jon seemed to be waiting for a response, but Gendry gave none. His voice softened. “She was one of the last to get sick. By that time, we’d thought the plague had all but subsided.” He hesitated, “On the last night,” he cleared his throat, “she summoned me to her chamber and gave it to me, saying you’d understand.”

He responded gruffly. “Understand what?” Gendry brought his head up to look at him and his breath caught in his throat. At eight and ten, Jon was easily six feet tall. His hair was thick and black and hung into his deep, crisp blue eyes. He had the face of a northerner and his broad shoulders, thick arms and chest were visibly corded with muscle beneath his purple and black tunic. 

“I don’t know, Your Grace.” He blinked, oblivious. “That’s all she spoke of it.” Jon held out the letter for him to take and, doing his best to keep his hand from shaking, Gendry reached out and took it from him, his eyes transfixed on the boy. “Thank you, Your Grace.” Without waiting for dismissal, Jon bowed and exited as quickly as he’d entered. 

Gendry sat in shock. News of her death had only numbed him as he hadn’t seen her since the day he watched her carriage leave for Dorne. Sansa had traveled to visit her every few years and the sisters sent ravens to one another regularly, but he and Arya never again corresponded. He winced and stifled a moan as a tear ran down his cheek, before long bringing his hand up to his eyes to cover them as he cried quietly for the first time since hearing of her fate. When he opened them again, he reached for the letter on his desk and examined the letter with caring, knowing that she’d once held it, that she’d poured the hot wax and pressed in the seal to close it. Carefully, he broke it and slowly unfolded the page. 

It was blank.


End file.
